In one corner was the complicated, highly sophisticated transmitter that fed signals into the unbreachable code scrambler, thence to the complex of antenna atop Government House, thence to the stratosphere, and thence to Whitehall.
Crosse switched it on. There was a comforting hum. “The minister, please. This is Asian One.” It gave him great pleasure to use his inner code name.
“Yes, Asian One?”
“Tsu-yan was one of the persons meeting the spy, Brian Kwok.”
“Ah! So we can strike him off the list.”
“Both of them, sir. They’re isolated now. On Saturday, the defector Joseph Yu was seen crossing the border.”
“Damn! You’d better have a team assigned to monitor him. Do we have fellows at their atomic center at Siankiang?”
“No sir. However there’s a rumor Dunross is going to meet Mr. Yu in Canton in a month.”
“Ah, what about Dunross?”
“He’s loyal—but he’ll never work for us.”
“What about Sinders?”
“He performed well. I do not consider him a security risk.”
“Good. What about the Ivanov?”
“She sailed at noon. We haven’t found Suslev’s body—it’ll take weeks to sift and dig out that wreckage. I’m afraid we may never find him in one piece. With Plumm gone too we’ll have to rethink Sevrin.”
“It’s too good a ploy not to have in existence, Roger.”
“Yes, sir. The other side will think so too. When Suslev’s replacement arrives I’ll see what they have in mind, then we can formulate a plan.”
“Good. What about deVille?”
“He is to be transferred to Toronto. Please inform the RCMP. Next, about the nuclear carrier: Her complement is 5,500 officers and men, 83,350 tons, eight reactors, top speed sixty-two knots, forty-two F-4 Phantom II’s each with nuclear capability, two Hawks Mark V. Curiously her only defense against an attack is one bank of SAMs on her starboard side …”
Crosse continued to give his report, very pleased with himself, loving his work, loving being on both sides, on three, he reminded himself. Yes, triple agent, with money to spare, both sides not trusting him completely yet needing him, praying he was on their side—not theirs.
Sometimes I almost wonder myself, he thought with a smile.
In the terminal building at Kai Tak, Armstrong was leaning heavily against the information counter, watching the door, feeling rotten. Crowds were milling as usual. To his surprise, he saw Peter Marlowe come in with Fleur Marlowe and their two children, dolls and small suitcases in their hands. Fleur was pale and drawn. Marlowe too. He was laden with suitcases.
“Hello, Peter,” Armstrong said.
“Hello, Robert. You’re working late.”
“No, I’ve, er, I’ve just seen Mary off. She’s off on a vacation to England for a month. Evening, Mrs. Marlowe. I was sorry to hear.”
“Oh, thank you, Superintendent. I’m qu—”
“We’re going to Binkok,” the four-year-old interrupted gravely. “That’s in Minland.”
“Oh come along, silly,” her sister said. “It’s Bunkok in Mainland. That’s China,” she added importantly to Armstrong. “We’re on vacation too. Mummy’s been sick.”
Peter Marlowe smiled tiredly, his face creased. “Bangkok for a week, Robert. A holiday for Fleur. Old Doc Tooley said it was important for her to get a rest.” He stopped as the two children began to squabble. “Quiet, you two! Darling,” he said to his wife, “you check us in. I’ll catch you up.”
“Of course. Come along. Oh do behave, both of you!” She walked off, the two children skittering ahead.
“Won’t be much of a holiday for her, I’m afraid,” Peter Marlowe said. Then he dropped his voice. “One of my friends told me to pass on that the meeting in Macao of the narcotics villains is this Thursday.”
“Do you know where?”
“No. But White Powder Lee’s supposed to be one of them. And an American. Banastasio. That’s the rumor.”
“Thanks. And?”
“That’s all.”
“Thanks, Peter. Have a good trip. Listen, there’s a fellow in the Bangkok police you should look up. Inspector Samanthajal—tell him I said so.”
“Thanks. Rotten about Linc Bartlett and the others, wasn’t it? Christ, I was invited to that party too.”
“Joss.”
“Yes. But that doesn’t help him or them, does it? Poor buggers! See you next week.”
Armstrong watched the tall man walk away, then went back to the information counter and leaned against it, continuing to wait, sick at heart.
His mind inexorably turned to Mary. Last night they had had a grinding row, mostly over John Chen, but more because of his last few days, Brian and the Red Room and borrowing the money, betting it all on Pilot Fish, waiting in agony, then winning and putting all the $40,000 back in his desk drawer—never a need to touch another penny—paying off his debts and buying her a ticket home but another row tonight and her saying, “You forgot our anniversary! That’s not much to remember is it? Oh I hate this bloody place and bloody Werewolves and bloody everything. Don’t expect me back!”
Dully he lit a cigarette, loathing the taste yet liking it. The air was humid again, sour. Then he saw Casey come in. He stubbed out his cigarette and went to intercept her, the heaviness in her walk saddening him. “Evening,” he said, feeling very tired.
“Oh, oh hello, Superintendent. How, how’re things?”
“Fine. I’ll see you through.”
“Oh that’s kind of you.”
“I was damned sorry to hear about Mr. Bartlett.”
“Yes. Yes, thank you.”
They walked on. He knew better than to talk. What was there to say? Pity, he thought, liking her, admiring her courage, proved at the fire, proved on the slope, proved now, keeping her voice firm when all of her is torn up.
There were no customs outwardbound. The Immigration officer stamped her passport and handed it back with untoward politeness. “Please have a safe journey and return soon.” The death of Bartlett had been headlines, among the sixty-seven.
Along corridors to the VIP lounge. Armstrong opened the door for her. To his surprise and her astonishment Dunross was there. The glass door to Gate 16 and the tarmac was open, Yankee 2 just beyond.
“Oh. Oh hello, Ian,” she said. “But I didn’t want you to s—”
“Had to, Casey. Sorry. I’ve a little unfinished business with you and I had to meet a plane. My cousin’s coming back from Taiwan—he went to fix the factory sites pending your approval.” Dunross glanced at Armstrong. “Evening, Robert. How’re things?”
“Same, same as usual.” Armstrong put out his hand to Casey and smiled wearily. “I’ll leave you now. Have a safe trip. Everything’s cleared as soon as you’re aboard.”
“Thank you, Superintendent. I wish … thank you.”
Armstrong nodded to Dunross and began to leave.
“Robert, did that consignment get delivered to Lo Wu?”
He pretended to think. “Yes, yes I believe it did.” He saw the relief.
“Thanks. Can you hang on a moment? I’d like to hear about it.”
“Certainly,” Armstrong replied. “I’ll be outside.”
When they were alone Dunross handed her a thin envelope. “This is a cashier’s check for $750,000 U.S. I bought Struan’s for you at 9.50 and sold at 28.”
“What?”
“Well I, er, I bought in for us first thing—at 9.50 as I promised I would. Your part of the deal was three quarters of a million. Struan’s made millions. I made millions, so did Phillip and Dianne, I let them in early too.”
She could not take it in. “Sorry, I don’t understand.”
He smiled and repeated what he had said, then added, “There’s also another check—for a quarter of a million dollars U.S. against your share of the General Stores takeover.”
She gasped. “I don’t believe you.”
A smile went
over him fleetingly. “Yes. In thirty days another three quarters of a million will be on call. In sixty days we could advance another half million if need be.”
Behind her, in the cockpit of Yankee 2, Jannelli fired the first jet engine. It shrieked into life.
“Is that enough to tide you over?” he asked.
Her mouth worked but no sound came out, then, “A quarter million?”
“Yes. Actually it comes to a million—these two checks. By the way, don’t forget you’re tai-pan of Par-Con now. That’s Linc’s real gift to you. Taipan. The money’s unimportant.” He grinned at her and gave her a brusque hug. “Good luck, Casey. See you in thirty days. Eh?” The second engine shrieked into life.
“A million U.S.?”
“Yes. I’ll get Dawson to send you some tax advice. As your profit is Hong Kong money I’m sure there are legitimate ways to avoid—not evade—taxes.” Another engine howled awake.
She was staring at him, speechless. The door of the VIP lounge opened and a tall man came in breezily. “Hello, Ian! They told me I could find you here.”
“Hello, David. Casey, this is David MacStruan, my cousin.”
Blankly Casey looked at him, half-smiled, but did not really notice him. “Hello. But, Ian, you mean that—you mean what you said?”
“Of course.” The last engine exploded into life. “You’d better go aboard! See you next month.”
“What? Oh. Oh, but I, yes, see you!” Dazed, she put the envelope in her bag, turned around and left.
They watched her go up the gangway. “So that’s the famous Casey,” David MacStruan said thoughtfully. He was as tall as Dunross but a few years younger, redheaded, with curious slanting, almost Asian eyes, though green, his face very used, most of the three smaller fingers of his left hand missing where the shrouds of his parachute had mashed them.
“Yes. Yes, that’s Kamalian Ciranoush Tcholok.”
“Smasher!”
“More than that. Think of her as the Hag.”
MacStruan whistled. “Is she that good?”
“She could be, with the right training.”
Aboard the airplane Svensen closed the cabin door, locked it. “You want anything, Casey?” he asked kindly, very concerned for her.
“No,” she said helplessly. “Just leave me, Sven. I’ll, I’ll call if I need anything. Okay?”
“Sure.” He closed the door.
Now she was alone. Numbly she buckled on her seat belt and looked out of the porthole. Through her tears she saw Dunross and the other man whose name she did not remember wave. She waved back but they did not see her.
Clouds went over the moon. The engines picked up tempo, the airplane taxied away, lined up and shrieked into the black sky, climbing steeply. Casey noticed none of it, Dunross’s words still pounding in her brain, over and over, taking her apart and putting her back together again.
Tai-pan. That’s Linc’s real gift to you, he had said. Tai-pan, the money’s unimportant.
Yes, yes that’s true but…
But…
What was it Linc said that time, that first day at the stock market? Wasn’t it: “If Gornt wins, we win. If Dunross wins, we win. Either way we become the Noble House—which’s why we’re here.”
The darkness lifted off her. Her mind cleared. The tears stopped.
That’s what he wanted, truly wanted, she thought, her excitement growing. He wanted us to be the Noble House. Sure. Maybe that’s what I can do for him in return, make that his epitaph—the Noble House.
“Oh Linc,” she said joyously. “It’s worth a try. Isn’t it?”
The jetliner barreled into the high clouds, continuing its faultless departure. The night was warm and very dark, the moon crescent, the wind kind.
Below was the Island.
Dunross came out onto the Peak Road fast, heading for home, the traffic light and the engine sounding sweet. On a sudden impulse he changed direction and pulled up at the Peak lookout and stood at the rail, alone.
Hong Kong was a sea of lights. Over in Kowloon another jet took off from the floodlit runway. A few stars came through the high clouds.
“Christ, it’s so good to be alive,” he said.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The novels of James Clavell’s world-famous Asian Saga (Shōgun, Tai-Pan, Gai-Jin, King Rat, Noble House, and Whirlwind) were each critically acclaimed major bestsellers and have been adapted into phenomenally successful, award-winning television events and feature films. James Clavell died in 1994.
NOBLE HOUSE
A Delta Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Delacorte Press hardcover edition published February 1981
Dell mass market edition published September 1986
Delta trade paperback edition / June 2009
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1981 by James Clavell
Part title calligraphy by Gina Chuang
Delta is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.,
and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-307-56797-0
Published simultaneously in Canada
www.bantamdell.com
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